FUGEREE

This show is performed as public intervention or sight specific work.

"Fugeree" was created in Amsterdam, it was a response to the Xenophobic violence that took place in South Africa.

Long weekend

Cabin Fever…

 

Drinking tea waits for no one;

Quickly, crinkle your skirt and bargain for a cup of tea.

 

Crunch your way toward the syrup taste of donughts

 and chocolate chip cookies.

Fold your serviette in half and wait for a jam drooling toasted sandwich;

 that looks like its dreaming about caramel peanut butter.

 Indulge yourself in pepper, sprayed, pesto and cheese roll exploding with chicken pieces;

 mocking you from the one side of the bread….

Smother your tongue and let your teeth gnaw at a green fresh piece of lettuce;

 that cries “help” as you chew her friend; the cucumber slice she partied with the night before.

Crush some ice and strawberries and machine yourself a smoothie filled with wholesome goodness…

 and a teaspoon of fresh cream on top.

Still not satisfied huh?

Well then step right in and sizzle your self a tender steak,

 bleeding rawness and perfection; that when you start to chew;

 it oozes barbeque in sweet and sour garlic.

Throw your head in cream, butter, cheesyfied mashed potatoes dully waiting to be consumed.

 

I will say no more…

 

Love vs Loneliness

Untitled

Writing love songs is like flamingos spilling into flight at sunrise.

Painting the sky, peach and orange.

Love songs are the twist of the tongue

Wanting to roll out, something smooth.

It’s the throat burning to sing a song;

 to soften the palate.

Love songs are the purging of a coy mistress;

 Fantasising about her estranged lover.

It’s the sad hum of an unsuspecting girlfriend;

 Sighing at the thought of her man lost in a big world.

Love songs are for crush crazed school girls;

Who create scenarios about love making and the art of relating.

It’s the hushed conversations about how

 He ejaculated onto her thighs.

 

Loneliness is the sick feeling in the stomach while the intestines play hide and seek,

Threatening anorexia.

It’s the unexpected nausea brought on by binging on chocolates and ice cream.

Loneliness is hearing a knock at the door and there’s nobody there.

It’s the door bell that never rings, communicating unknown call me backs to the cell phone.

 

Love songs are strange words written in a foreign language;

 by a caffeine fiend / poet lost in translation.

He scribbles reminiscing of summer days and rainfall at the park.

Love songs are for fat ladies sitting under the shade of a tree,

The compare stories of their first night.

Revealing secrets of stained sheets and the rejection of an un bleeding new bride.

 

Loneliness is an empty sigh after really good sex. It’s a feeling unsatisfied with life’s love

Whether they are precious moments or dull days in the sun.

Loneliness is the sound of a siren alerting the paranoia and numbing the taste buds.

The mind creating shadows that randomly appear.

 

Love songs are for good boys and clever lads decking their cards.

They pile their experiences to their wit and cunning.

It’s the drunken masters’ last story before he passes out.

Love songs are the dance of spirit as it sweats out passion.

Creating an air of angered petals, that breathes sweat and heavy panting.

It’s the charm at the beginning of a love affair tightening the air with tension.

 

Loneliness is the grey clouds constantly covering a girl’s sun.

Making her walk in the shade and be the only person with jersey on a spring day.

Loneliness is a sad blow of the wind; howling strange tunes.

The leaves dancing out of rhythm,

Crackling the branches that break off in disappointment.

Loneliness is the pounding of the drums.

Droning into oblivion with no beat in particular.

Inviting depression and unknown sorrow of past pain.

Loneliness is the regret and shame of love lost, love broken.

It’s the harsh whisper of self hatred and harsh self judgement.

 

Love songs are the pull and twist of a violin, crying out wanting to be heard,

Strings popping of place.

It’s the tight pull and blues of a lonely guitar in an empty flat;

Missing the grey shade of a piano.

 

May 2008 Amsterdam

 

 

 

 

Short Story for Durban in a Word. A collection by Diane Steward, Published by Penguin.

URBAN LEGEND by Ntando Cele

 

Beats that drum to the beat of the nation.

Vibes that soar to tear up the tar, cracking the center

blurring the line.

Beat….beat …Godzilla approaching beat…

Cars. People, beat…concrete. Beat hear the call.

Vibes, earlobes exploding, hold your hairpiece

 strike a pose the city is vibin’.

 

Climax hits the sky, ecstasy high lifting me to flight.

Leaving the ground to exhale in the clouds.

Feet leaving the ground, smoke left behind.

Body spiral, play her your flute.

Elongated, hot weary of latitude she slides into the abyss to never return.

 

I tell of our meeting...

 

She sits on the edge of a canvas as if about to leap into a sea of rage, purging emotions, spilling the beans. Wrapped in a blanket of hope for love and humankind, she twirls in the canvas, splashing it Red, as if to spill into the sun. Green that overflows freshness rooting into the unknown. Blue as wide as the sky, deepening into space.

 

“Shosholoza” they sing, praising her as she bounces from coast to coast. The children have heard stories of how one day, she will magically drop from the sky, transforming the poor to drooping idiots with gold teeth the size of Puff Daddy's hand. The sad and bereaved to possessed worshipers, leaping to be saved.

The legend goes that everyone in the city will line up to touch her cloth. Some believe she will start on Point Road, while others say she will be received on Musgrave Road. She will then take her rightful place as the mother of the nation, the daughter to Chatsworth, worthy of Wentworth, princess of Umlazi, goddess of Newlands.

 

Blues sway the city, blues at Smith, coloured by holiday makers. I lay awake, pupils dare not close, insomnia phenomena. It's the usual, outside my window, the Berea is kind to the vendors. They cover it like a plague. Night time provides for some cleansing. “Who heard of one so dirty?” I  think to myself, wanting to strip away the dirty layers of my skin. My thoughts swing to empty happiness, holding my sadness firm while the darkness slowly pulls me in.

 

Outside the air is tight with uncertainty. Only the dogs see the fire flies, that announce her arrival. They howl like any other day, not altering their pitch makes them sound monotone.

Paper wrapped, dripping with the stench of urban lights,she lands in Durban. Her dress blows in the wind. Buzzing with the fresh thoughts that travel till eternity, she smiles, her feet nearly touching the ground.

Peace raiding Westville, west of Field Street. Morningside robots point toward the broad blankness of empty streets. Nobody knew she would be arriving tonight or just like

 the second coming, the women would have layered the streets with their attire,covering the tar. The children would sing alongside the streets,choirs competing to lament her arrival. The men would slaughter a cow in preparation for the feast, to rock till sunrise. The streets would be filled with celebrity wannabe's  wanting to be filmed in her presence. She chooses to look towards my window, maybe she heard the demons that bark inside my head.

 

Suddenly I smell the light, wet, weak but hot with comfort, canceling the despair. She sings at my window. Tuning in to her laughter my insides melt, as her words wrangle their way into my soul. I am lifted high,  high above the sky nearly touching the stars.  I know immediately that it is she. The legend also talks of how she reaches deep within and releases your light, warmth that shines forever. Burning all sins beyond recognition.

As she whispers to me, my soul touches hers. I catch a glimpse of lands she has seen, people she has touched,and the horror to come. I'm destined to tell her truth, I give in to absolute pleasure, open my arms to receive my gift. Eyes closed, mouth open...  She disappears... I breath.

 

Ear crackling, shackles locking , wet with erosion

I’m back, energized vibrating deep in my center.

Sensual red purity, hot zest steaming at the top of my head.

Burning with lust. Stroke of pop, streak of funk,

Shaking my wild hair to vibe..vibe.. beat… beat.

Vibes that soar gushing to pour out my senses.

Jive..jive… to the street.

 

 I yearn for more. I follow her.  Try to make out where she is. I’ve lost her in the crowd. I catch a glimpse of her yellow dress, I follow the smell of breyani. Her hair flows  like a mythical being I have seen on television.(Yet she is not blonde)  Calling me in ancient voice I float towards her.  Pen and paper in hand, clear visions of ecstasy, free of my own shackles, my soul floats. We fly high.

At this height they say you shouldn’t look down, I spot matchbox houses filed neatly behind malls, hidden from the passing eyes on the freeways. Squalor buzzes with blues for a better future, holidays on the beach, sunsets that leave you breathless.

 I take a deep breath as white air fills my lungs, clean air, fresh air. I dream of traveling out of this city. I dream of lush green pastures that roll out on the rocks and valleys of  a thousand hills, pretending they never end. I want to follow her where ever she goes...

 I spit at the deep blue sea calm with unrest of the unknown. I pretend I don’t know what it holds; I pretend I can’t smell the future, grey with colonial memoirs.

Finally we sit on the rocks on the edge of the sea, she tells me her lungs spit out a nation of the damned, not damned because they’re unlucky, they’re unlucky for they grope in the dark trying to find themselves. She has mercy on them,touched by their misery. Like Father Christmas she blesses  them while they sleep, magically anointing their foreheads. She promises better days, days of wealth and happiness in the land of the free.

 

 I know it is everyman for himself,you find your agenda and stick to it. Nameless dumbfounded they will always need her. Her story is the bread that feeds the empty souls roaming the streets, searching for their identity. It is the blanket that warms the streets on cold winter nights, lighting the fires till daybreak. Some even paint the streets in her honour,as did the San in their caves. I fear if she stays too long she will bargain with her soul without a thought. Then all hope will be empty. All of this I don’t say. Pen to paper I tell her story.

 

Pounding hearts , Afros, wild cool with rhythm.

Visions of happy clubbing, sipping cape velvet, silk sarong wrapped from my ankles.

Cool air damp with cool raindrops, wild side, drum side,

Run with the wind, wet ‘n  wild. Beat.. beat..

 

Running with the pulse” Who are these people?” African dream

”Where do they come from?” look bright see white paint the town black

The city is vibin’ …beat… beat…beat.. beat.

 

I write, I write of a legend I once heard speak...

 

NTANDOYENKOSINTOKOZOCELE

iNtandoyenkosi I ran away from, till iNtokozo was hard to find.

The will is inevitable in the search for happiness.

 I thank you my God, intando yakho mayenziwe;

 through my happiness.

20/04/08 Belguim

TATOOS

Mobilizing the rising need to shave the back of my head.

Mobilizing the arousal to open the back of my skull.

Mobilizing the forces that call for some kind of action.

My thoughts are covered in blue ink.

Hair to the north/

body to the west/ I marvel at those that paint their war colors/ shouting their song for all to hear/ take notice as you look away, you hear/ their song slowly whispered through your senses/ Its not a song of freedom or a cry or plea/ but victory over the demons of soul.

OBSESSION

SWEET HEAVEN

 

Look up… Look up… gaped mouth, tonsils facing upwards.

The message is delivered.

Look up, look up, palms facing up, the sky opens up.

The clouds shift aside opening a gaping hole. Heaven’s insides exposed, the message will be delivered today.

 Light shines warming the air, melting man’s sins.

 A chorus can be heard coming from far.

Light rays pierce the air, reflecting colours of the rainbow that melt into gold dust, of cherubs.

 I’m looking up waiting to receive.

The clouds form bubbles of cotton wool that roll like candy floss, not like the cheap kind at a Boswell Wilkie circus but like the one you imagine to be growing in the streets of heaven that are paved with crystals and diamonds. Pearly gates, sweets of heaven.

The clouds bubble and flow waiting to announce the coming.

 

 Glory be to… she is here, she is here.

 The centre cracks shattering all logic sense that separate the right from wrong.

Sense of being black being white.

I want to see her face but my eyes close. Fearing the burning light has flowed through my pupils causing them to dilate, sending messages to my brain that awaken my lust for life, sensual spirit and absolute desire.

 The singing is closer now.

My eyes won’t look in attempt to stay at the cross I raise my hand, reaching out. I want to be there when she arrives.

 A thin finger manicured French perfection slowly reaches toward me, gravity pulls our fingers together, all else is silent. The world crumbles around us in blind silence whispers an electric surge charges through my body.

 Crashing all boundaries of self hatred.

 I travel in time and catch a glimpse of all who came before me. The message is clear…

We allow our darkness to envelop us; we need to let the wisdom of our soul to lead us to the pastures.

January 2008

 

LOVE SONG

Missing you…missing me…

 

Missing you, missing me is like;

an empty summers rain drowning the heat on the sewers of the city.

It’s like the hollow echo of the drops; as they land on roof tops

then tumble slowly toward the drain.

Missing you, missing me is the term I’m labelling this,

my fear of loneliness as everything seems to whisper our name,

as if I’ve forgotten that you’re not here.

Its the sour taste in my mouth before I fall asleep groping my pillow for comfort.

 

Missing you missing me sings the chorus of my life;

as I wallow in my misery finally finding me, finding you.

The struggle to stay true to the new me, that found the old me se to the corner like a little naughty girl.

Missing you, finding me is a warped concept about the state of being.

It’s a naked truth I find once I’m staring deep into

 my reflection, letting go to find inner peace.

 

Missing you finding me is a little game. I like to play, like hide and seek. Counting the minutes the seconds

 imagining the days I will spend with you;

 chained to my side and outlining the contours of your body.

 It’s the puzzle I pretend I cannot complete.

 

Pull the wool over my eyes, I find myself saying as the winter nears by loneliness has never seem so dark. 

I long for your return.

 The thought of finding you and holding till eternity doesn’t seem so bad.

 But then again that seems like insanity.

So I’ll just carry on wishing you were here get to know my newly found friend. Myself, me, and hope they will be a place for you on your return.

November 2007

The word

The Brick

 

Many have written of the fist.

Closed armed with rage of the people; spitting the rage for freedom.

The fist that called all together to put the in words where the action is.

 I’m talking about the brick…

 

Before the fist was the brick; the brick that you undermine lying on the tar; half baked and mangled in red sand. 

This brick is the arrow that whooshed through the air; pushed by the lightning of the enslaved pit bulls; drooling with anger of the oppressed and the damned.

Well today, this brick gets a chance; this brick gets a face lift.

 Not because it’s a face brick but because it is unleashed through pure muscle of frustration.

It once held together a shack for a cosy family in poverty stricken Dabeka, Kwamashu, Dengezi.

It once held the foundation for gatherings of praise and thanks to the ancestors.

Through the years this brick has seen the birthing of children, held tight family secrets and hid forbidden lust.

So you ask why I speak of the brick; because before the fist was the brick; used to destroy and maim the enemy when guns were seen to be barbaric.

I have visions of the passionate youth, their feet stamping the ground, dust playing at their songs of freedom.

Their hunger for the release of their manhood so strong, that their sweat burnt the sand.

The throwing of the brick is the last action, the climax after a long struggle, holding back the beast, taming the senses, bowing to the master with shame, without identity.

When finally all hell breaks loose, the chains are yanked and the beast within calls;

the same beast that growled inside Shaka, the same beast that yelled when Biko picked up the pen, choking Ewok to write what he likes.

The same beast roars in me now as I trace the roots of the fist, brick, stone that was used to fight battles now not heard of.

Used to silence those who were different, used to release the pressure after a long bake in prison cells.

Used as a division of race, used to draw games in the street as we played “Ma ngilambile, ngifun’ ukudla”.

I salute the brick, the stones, that pave the way towards success and the future transforming “Kodwa abantu, bazothini” to double stories of pride for the nation.

Skyscrapers of dreams and hope for humanity; that rocket past the clouds and just about reach the heavens. Where the angels watch in envy as the human race hold hands and sing Peace.

 Drawing their destiny in blood ink, securing their freedom for generations to come.

 Hold your breath, the world just got better.

January 2008...

 

 

 

ARTIST PROFILE

Artist History

Ntando Cele is a performer, writer and maker. She has a background as an actress and performer. Looking to push the boundaries of performance, she has a National Diploma in Drama Studies from Durban Institute of Technology and a Master of Theater from Dasarts Amsterdam.

In 2001 she started creating work on a multi disciplinary level collaborating on choreography, poetry and sight specific projects. She created Black Auction for Red eye art, Durban Art gallery, performed in Republic at Jomba Dance Festival, Silhouetteand Incognito at Dance Umbrella JHB and Cape Africa platform, Rebound at the Bag Factory JHB.

In the last three years she has been mostly involved in Solo performances; a scripted one woman show that toured South Africa and the rest her own creations, using her own texts.

In 2010 she collaborated with a poet\ musician, a painter to create Cypher Session a flavor of sound, song, storytelling and poetry; which premiered in Zurcher Theater Spektakel featured in Biennale Bern at Stadt Theater Bern, Volksroom Brussels and Focus11 Basel.

In the latest editions of performances she works with her own background to recreate her identity. She started working with crying\wailing\laughing sounds that gel with electronic and live music to develop narratives that blur class, social, race differences within the performance space.

Work since 2004

Teaching Drama and Acting, Crawford Primary School, Durban

Workshops on Poetry writing, Centre for the Creative Arts,Durban, South Africa

Workshops on creating sound performance

Created Solos and Collaborations

2012 Xenophobia, Gallery Bart, Amsterdam

              Face Off, Amsterdam Fringe Festival, Zucher Theater Spektakel,

               Diskurs12, Giessen

2011 Spatial Tuning1 (collaboration), Focus11, Basel

Spatial Tuning1 (collaboration), Zuid Afrika Huis, Amsterdam;

Two Way Street (collaboration), Gallery Raum, Bern

2010 Cypher Session, Zurcher Theater Spektakel, Switzerland; Volksroom Brussels,

2009 Disturbia (collaboration), Rote Fabrik, Zurich;

Crossroads (collaboration), DasArts, Amsterdam

Toilet Rhyme, Rotterdam Schouwburg

        Say It (performance lesson), DasArts, Amsterdam

2008  Frigid Foreplay, Durban, South Africa

      Rebound, Bag Factory Gallery, Johannesburg, South Africa

Xenophobia (Performance Video), Amsterdam

Silhouette (collaboration) KVS Theatre, Brussels, Belgium

2007 Incognito (collaboration), Dance Factory, Johannesburg,

Cape Africa, Cape Town, South Africa

Residency

2009 Rote Fabrik, Zurich, Switzerland;

Music Collaboration, Club Helsinki, Zurich, Switzerland

Workshop on Body and Movement, Rotterdam, Netherlands

2010\11 Workshops on Racism, Campus Muristalden, Bern, Switzerland

Workshop on Sound Performance, Leselenz, Hausach, Germany

Contact Details

24 Voycey Street,Morningside ,

Durban 4001, South Africa

Email; ntandocl@yahoo.com Cell phone; +2784 720 1834